


To Cut One's Nose Off (To Spite One's Face)

by bgd_thrifty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Body Dysmorphia, M/M, Mild Gore, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:56:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgd_thrifty/pseuds/bgd_thrifty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has never been satisfied with the way he looks and he knows that those around him are lying when they reassure him. He will do anything to achieve his perfect vision of himself, regardless of the impact it has on himself and his loved ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Cut One's Nose Off (To Spite One's Face)

Harry wasn’t sure of the first time that he’d been dissatisfied with his appearance. Maybe it had been when he realised that Dudley was the more loved child; that he didn’t fit into the Dursley’s equation for a happy life. He’d tried to be more like Dudley – had eaten so much food at school he thought his sides would burst. But when he’d try it at home, Aunt Petunia would look at him like he was insane. What did _he_ need the food for? He was a runt. _‘Only growing boys need to eat a lot, and I’m a growing boy,’_ Dudley would say, preening under the attention of his proud parents.

When Harry managed to get just a little bit chubbier (he fancied that Aunt Petunia was nicer to him then than she had ever been), Dudley (or rather, his group) had started chasing him around the playground, calling him names. He was now a fat porker. They would follow him and anyone he managed to talk to, making honking noises. The playground teachers thought they were playing a game, even when Harry cried (he tried not to, but it was so _hard_ sometimes). He decided to stop trying to be like Dudley. It hadn’t made him any happier. He had stopped eating and gone back to being anonymous and friendless.

* *

He was nervous now, standing outside the building and trying to muster up the courage to enter. A man knocked into him and gave him a glare over his shoulder. Harry supposed he deserved it for standing in the middle of a busy road in Muggle London. He had wondered why the clinic was here, but supposed it lent to the anonymity that was promised to patrons. It wasn’t the man’s fault that he couldn’t see the building that Harry was too much of a coward to step into.

People bustled past him with their umbrellas up, attempting to fend off the rain that was falling at an awkward angle on the cold pavement, making deep puddles that soaked the hems on one’s trousers. A woman with a pram struggled to put hers up and carry on pushing and although Harry could have helped her, he didn’t. He was about to give up on this venture, considering that the few he’d asked had assured him that this was a supremely stupid idea – not that you’re the one seeking it out, of course; Merlin knows what they’ll think of next – when he caught sight of himself; his _face_ in a puddle. He couldn’t live with this anymore. Even in the murky brown water, dirtied by the hundreds of feet that had tramped through it, he could see the reasons (some of the reasons) why he hated himself.

* *

It would be simple, he was told. What did he want done? They could change anything and it wasn’t even that expensive, not with their amazing payment plans. Harry had forced himself to sit in front of the mirror – hating himself – pointing out the things he wanted altered. The Healer (he wasn’t so much a Healer as a Magical Practitioner, Harry had been told) said that he should take things slowly at first, perhaps take a few pounds of fat off here or there, maybe expand some muscle or slim his nose. Harry, staring intently at his reflection and fixating on the unevenness of his features, agreed.

It wasn’t anything like muggle surgery. There was no painful recovery period or adjustment time. Within ten minutes (not counting the waiting time or payment), Harry had had his acne scars removed, his hairline extended and wrinkles smoothened out. His ears and nose could wait until next time, the Healer said. It wasn’t good to overload oneself with magic, he said. Harry didn’t care. All he wanted to know was when the closest free slot was. He had looked in the mirror again after the procedure, and he had not been satisfied.

**

Harry knew when the first time he’d felt he would die of embarrassment was: year five, aged nine, at the end of term disco. He didn’t have a date. He hadn’t dared to ask anyone. Dudley did, of course, having promised a girl a box of chocolates or something if she did. Harry hadn’t seen her yet, but he was sure she would come soon. No one ignored Dudley, or they’d get hit. They might get hit even if they _didn’t_ ignore him. Harry stood by the wall with no one to talk to, rebuffing all efforts by staff to get him to dance. He didn’t really know any of these songs, not being allowed to listen to Dudley’s tapes. He was left mostly alone in the end, the teachers knowing that he was ‘shy’ and didn’t really like to socialise. Harry loved talking to people, but they never seemed to want to talk back.

A bit later on, with too much sugar in their systems, the children were bouncing about madly, no longer paying any heed to what song was playing. Harry snuck into the crowd and jumped too, feeling excited; feeling like he was the same as everyone else. Dudley didn’t allow it to happen for long. Calling out “Dance off!” he pushed Harry into the middle with one of his gang, who carried on as if nothing had happened, dancing madly. Harry froze, not used to having this many eyes on him. People started yelling, calling him boring, stupid, a spoilsport and Harry couldn’t take it. He started crying and had to be taken outside to calm down. He could still hear the laughter of the rest of the year as he was taken out by his teacher, his clammy hand gripping hers tightly.

* *

Harry thought that people took pity on him sometimes. He knew that he was the Boy-Who-Lived and all that, but surely people couldn’t gloss over the way he looked _that_ much. They called him a heartthrob; said that he had a cheeky grin that made all the girls swoon. All Harry could see was a mane of disgustingly untameable hair that he only kept long in order to hide more of his face, malformed features and teeth that were so crooked he had to smile with his mouth closed. Those were only a few of his faults. Yet somehow, people still wanted to go on dates with him, even if he never let them progress into anything more. He could never let someone see him naked, could he? They’d point and laugh and go straight to the newspapers about his scrawny physique and lack of any muscle definition; his fat beer belly that seemed to defy his stick arms. He went on the dates anyway, hoping that one day there’d be someone that he wouldn’t mind baring his body for, unlikely as that might be.

He’d never have imagined that it would be Draco Malfoy that would change his life. He’d ignored him since that final confrontation at Hogwarts; hadn’t even given him back his wand. It hardly seemed fair that while he stayed inside his house most days, stuck in front of a mirror, Malfoy was living the high life, partying and swanning around like his father wasn’t mouldering in Azkaban. Harry only managed to pull himself away from the bathroom after smoothing his hair down over and over with water, trying to tame it, and couldn’t never enjoy himself. Malfoy had no such compunctions.

* *

On visit number two, he asked the Healer what could be done about his teeth, cringing away from his answer even before he asked his mouth. When the Healer asked him to open his mouth, he did so reluctantly, unwilling to expose his crooked fangs. _“Oh, I don’t believe there’s any work to be done here,”_ the Healer had said, moving on to other things. Harry hadn’t wanted to sound vain, so he had shut up while he had an unsightly bump shaved from his nose and lumps of fat removed from under his chin.

When he got home, he used sandpaper to try and make his teeth even. His gums bled.

* *

Draco had reinvented himself while Harry had been wallowing. He could certainly not be described as kind, and often made fun of Hermione and Ron, even in Harry’s hearing, but he had _moved on_. Six years seemed to have done him a world of good where it had left Harry a shell. But there was something that seemed to attract Draco to him, something that Harry didn’t understand. When he had asked why one winter evening, Draco had shushed him with a kiss, telling him he was gorgeous. Harry had wanted to punch him – why was he _lying_? – but hadn’t, choosing to be lost instead.

Draco wanted him to move in, but Harry _couldn’t_ , couldn’t let Draco know that he was a narcissist who took three hours to get out of the house because he had to keep picking (quite literally) over his appearance. Draco was disappointed, but Harry knew he’d be even more so if he saw what Harry really was.

* *

In the mornings, Harry always woke up at four.If he didn’t, it was unlikely that he’d get out of the house in time for work. He always started by uncovering the mirror he’d levitated a sheet over before bed. If he didn’t, Harry found himself staring at his reflection until the early hours of the morning. He would go into the bathroom and brush his teeth for as long as he could without looking up. If he did look up, he knew that he’d be stuck. It was hard to see his face and not want to just claw it off sometimes.

* *

“You follow him around like a dog, Potter. It’s pathetic.” Pansy hated him and always had done. Harry knew it hadn’t just been self-preservation that had her wanting to give him up to Voldemort. While Draco seemed to have found something to let him move on from the past, Pansy had kept every grudge firm. “You’re no good for him! I mean, you have no idea what he wants from life.” Harry had said nothing which seemed to infuriate her further. He stayed silent not because he had been shocked by the accusations, but because he had no idea how to respond to what he knew was only the truth.

“Are you listening? Merlin, he could do so much better than you. Bet you haven’t even... _fucked_.” She spat this out, the harsh word sounding foreign coming from her usually delicate features. “Saving yourself for the wedding night, are you?” That was enough to make Harry flush. He hadn’t wanted Draco to see him like _that_ , all pale and pasty from lack of sun.

Harry carried on standing there and finally she gave up, with parting words that Harry couldn’t bear to remember. What _was_ he doing with Draco? If he stayed with him, he’d only end up being crushed when Draco realised what a _freak_ he was going out with.

* *

_“Just make me someone else. Please,”_ he had said. The man looked uneasy.

“Mr Potter, we don’t usually do things like this unless psychological testing – ” The look on Harry’s face made him freeze.

“Exactly. _Potter_. Don’t forget who you’re talking to. Now change it. All of it. I don’t want to see me looking back in the mirror. The _Healer_ nodded, and Harry closed his eyes, waiting. He could be what he needed to be after this. Draco wouldn’t pussyfoot around him or treat him like he was china. There would be no one to try and convince him that he wasn’t well and that he needed help. It was no one’s fault that his parents’ genetics had produced this, except maybe his own. If he had been nicer at school, or made more friends, maybe there wouldn’t be these deep furrows in his forehead as if he were as old as Dumbledore.

Draco didn’t like that Harry had been changing his appearance; wanted him to reverse everything. Harry knew he wasn’t being truthful. Even the little changes, although not nearly enough, were improvements. Draco was trying to make him feel better and it _wasn’t working_.

* *

When Draco had the affair, Harry knew he only had himself to blame. They had been ‘official’ for half a year and he could count the number of times they’d had sex on one hand. It only stood to reason that Draco would get tired of waiting; that he’d want to move on. That was why he was surprised that Draco had tears running down his face as he admitted to giving in to temptation after one night on the town.

“Draco, it’s alright,” he’d said, rubbing his back softly. “I understand why you did it, and it doesn’t matter.” He tried not to let Draco see his face – Draco was already crying; no need to make it worse. Draco had sobbed, promising never to do it again. Harry had ignored these whispered pleas, knowing that it would only be a matter of time. The time he had had so far had been amazing and much more than he deserved. He rarely even left the house anymore.

* *

That night, he left an exhausted Draco sleeping in bed, the lights still off. Draco had said that he wanted to see his face, but Harry pretended he hadn’t heard as he pressed his head into the pillows, letting them soak up his tears.

He moved to the bathroom, eyes instantly drawn to the mirror. What did Draco see in him? Why did he try and delude himself that waking up next to _this –_ this scarecrow – was what he wanted for the rest of their lives? What was the point in Harry living this farce when it would only crush him in the end? Why was he letting their lives be wasted? Harry didn’t cry as he raised his wand; he had no tears left. Draco seemed to find _something_ attractive about him. If he got rid of whatever it was, maybe Draco would leave him and he could set the both of them free. _‘Sectumsempra’_ , he whispered – had he even said that out loud? – and whips of red flew from his face, blinding him.

* *

On first sight of his new face, Hermione had nearly cursed him. Harry realised that she didn’t actually recognise him and this made him smile. Courtesy of the slightly reluctant Healer, he now had normal features. There were things he’d change – of course there were, he’d seen his old nose, for example, shining through, but on the whole, he was happy.

The people around him were not so pleased.

* *

“What’s wrong with you, Harry? First you hexing yourself and now this... Why did you do this to yourself?” Harry shook his head. Of course they didn’t understand. But was his new face really that bad?

“Don’t you like it?” He asked, self-consciously touching his cheek. Yes, the skin felt rough there, didn’t it? It hadn’t yesterday, but today there was definitely something different; something _wrong_. “If you don’t, I can change –”

“No!” The vehemence with which Draco exclaimed this seemed out of place to Harry. “You look just like the man I...” Harry closed his eyes.

“Yes, I _know_. That was the point, in case you couldn’t tell. I just thought if you were going to put up with me, you might at least have an attractive face to look at every morning.” All Harry heard was a choked sound, and then “I just... I can’t deal with this anymore.” Harry opened his eyes in time to see Draco leaving through the open door. Well, that was that then, wasn’t it?

**

They’d taken everything away from him, beginning with his face. It had started when he went back to the Healer. The man had looked nervous, but had said it was nothing. He had asked for a Pensieve memory of Harry, said that he needed it for his records. Harry had complied, cringing at the sight of his old face all the while. With his guard down, Harry had merely told the Healer to fix what was still wrong with him. He _knew_ that the spells, touted though they were as being permanent, were wearing off. He knew because Draco had left him, and his friends could barely stand to look him in the eyes. He’d reverted back to being that little ugly boy in the oversized clothes with no friends; with no _thing_.

When he came back to himself and the mirror was placed in front of him, Harry began to hyperventilate. This was a dream, this was a _nightmare_ , this just couldn’t have happened to him because it was wrongwrongwrong – What had happened to his _face?_

**

The next thing they took was his dignity: no longer fit to be an Auror due to mental issues. Harry wanted to know what they could possibly have diagnosed him with other than extreme narcissism. But apparently, the powers-that-be had also deemed him a harm to himself and so he was locked up. What he didn’t think said powers realised was that he hadn’t been a good Auror for nothing, and he was nothing if not resourceful.

Harry was not a suicide risk, so Harry was allowed a razor. What Harry had to do now, was weigh up the options. Harry couldn’t see his face; no mirror. Was it risky to try and operate on himself without a guide? On the other hand, Harry had mapped his face so much by touch, he could probably draw his visage with his eyes (eyelids needed tightening) closed. But he might scar. But even that would be an improvement. He’d have to test it somewhere else – somewhere a little less visible. Breaking the razor blade out with his large (stubby) fingers, Harry held it up and made the first incision.

**

In the end, time was the only true Healer. Only time could fade the scars across his thighs or heal the wounds in his head that still bled when prodded. Only time could recover Harry’s self esteem for him; could make him look in a mirror and not break down. Only time could make Draco come back to him, tentatively, as if they’d never had their romance. Time would never make him stop covering the mirrors, or picking at his skin when nervous, but it meant that there was always someone there to hold his clammy hand.


End file.
